There’s Always Tomorrow by Pam Weaver

when she put the cup down and she’d panicked, but she stood very still and almost immediately he’d begun to snore again. Dottie hurried downstairs and out of the house. She didn’t want … couldn’t face talking to him again. Why did she always take him a cup of tea anyway? It had started when he first came home. He was ill then. He was fine now. Well, he could get his own tea from now on, she told herself defiantly.
    All day long she’d gone over and over the things he’d said and she was surprised to realise that, for the first time in her whole life, she resented the idea of looking after someone else’s child. If Patsy was already eight, there was no way she could pretend the child was hers. What was she going to say to the people in the village? She hated the thought of everybody talking behind her back.
    ‘Of course, you know that poor Dot Cox can’t have any children.’
    Dottie bristled at the thought of being an object of pity.
    ‘Can’t blame a man for wanting his own child, can you?’ they’d say.
    And what about the child? When she had been conceived, she and Reg were already married. Everyone would know he’d been with another woman. War or no war, what sort of a man goes with another woman within a year of his marriage? What did that say about her? And what about the child herself? Poor little thing. She didn’t ask to be born, did she?
    ‘Dottie …’ Janet said.
    Dottie frowned. She refused to feel sorry for the child. Why should she? But while she was ironing, she found herself wondering what she looked like. Reg had black hair but only out of a bottle to hide the grey. The woman in the picture was fair. She imagined Patsy all peaches and cream, a little Shirley Temple with pretty blonde curls, who smelled of talcum powder and Gibbs toothpaste. Dottie folded and shook a sheet viciously and banged the iron down on it. She had to stop doing this. She didn’t want her. She didn’t want Reg’s kid. She wanted her own child. And another thing, why should he rant and rave on like that, expecting her to like the idea? She’d be nothing more than an unpaid servant. She was his wife, for goodness’ sake. Why should she open her home to his … his bastard!
    ‘Dottie!’ Janet Cooper’s voice brought her abruptly back to the present. ‘You’ve ironed that sheet to death. Sugar in your tea?’
    ‘Er, no. I’m sorry,’ Dottie said. ‘I was miles away.’
    ‘So I see,’ smiled Janet. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
    ‘I was wondering …’ Dottie began hesitantly, ‘would it be possible for me to go early today?’
    Janet Cooper looked at the clock. Normally her cleaner left at four. It was now ten to three. She frowned. Dottie didn’t usually ask favours but she’d have to be careful. Give these people an inch … the last thing she wanted was Dottie taking liberties.
    ‘I came in at eight instead of nine,’ Dottie pointed out, ‘and I haven’t taken any breaks.’
    Janet hesitated. ‘Is it Reg?’ she asked.
    Dottie chewed her bottom lip. She didn’t like telling lies but she could see by her face that Janet Cooper needed a good reason to let her go. ‘Yes.’
    ‘Oh my dear, why didn’t you say so? Of course you must go. We can’t do too much for those of our brave boys who came back. Yes, put the rest of that ironing away and off you go.’
    Fifteen minutes later, Dottie, feeling somewhat ashamed and guilty, was hurrying to the next village. Durrington was easily a mile and a half away and she decided not to catch the bus that stopped outside the shops. She didn’t want anyone from the village telling Reg they’d seen her catching the bus. It was a bit of a rush, but she was fit and knew she could do it.
     
     
    ‘How was the trip to Littlehampton, Reg?’
    Marney handed him a chipped enamel mug of tea. Reg was acting as ticket collector today, although there were few passengers on a weekday afternoon. He put the steaming mug to his lips and slurped in a mouthful of